


The Words

by bellestrashprince



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellestrashprince/pseuds/bellestrashprince
Summary: When HYDRA found Bucky Barnes, they knew they had to do the absolute worst to kill him inside. And the words, the ten words, are torture every time he hears them.orLonging - how on his first night on the Front, Bucky clutches Steve’s letter close to his heart and wishes he were back at home with him.





	1. Longing

“желание,” the man starts, and somewhere deep inside him the Soldier hears the desperate plea of someone he used to be. Longing…

\----------------------

The moon. Full. Large and bright, too bright. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the green uniforms and brown mud and pink flesh and the red blood. Bucky stares at it, annoyed at its ignorance, at how it dares remind him of a life that won’t be his no more. He’d thought he was ready and the idea makes him laugh, a hollow chuckle empty of all emotion except _I don’t want to be here_. But then again, he’d been just a boy, no matter how grown he’d believed himself to be, and the war had turned him into a man.

Basic had been easy, and thrilling, and exciting. And then it had been a little tougher, and then some more, and then it wasn’t fun at all. And then… Then he’d had to say goodbye to his family, and goodbye to Steve, and he’d gotten on the train and off to war. At first, he’d been alone, really alone, but soon enough, as time went by, he’d made some friends. Well, Bucky scoffs to himself, as close to friends as you can become in war-time, knowing at least half if not all of those you know will soon bleed and die, and then you’re back to square one. Back home he was known to be friendly and charming, quick to make acquaintances, and a part of him tried to hold onto that out here, to fight back against the little voice inside his head reminding him of the awful truth. Still, he kept a part of himself hidden, safe from the menacing voices and the gunfire, from the bitter cold and the blood that flowed like a river every night. They liked him out here now, as much as any soldier dared to like another.

If he lets his eyes wander he can see some of his brothers-in-arms, swaddling a jacket or other and choosing to sleep right there in the mud. The rest try to keep spirits up by sharing a word or two over a warm cup of whatever beverage they can get their hands on. And then there’s him, alone, tucked away in the night, clutching a letter and trying to keep warm.

Bucky’s millions of miles away from home, exposed to the cold Italian night, and he hasn’t seen it in months. He’s starting forget what it felt like, to be home, to not freeze, to not be scared, to not be alone. He fumbles the letter in his hand mindlessly, the skin that’s still soft on his fingertips grazing the textured parchment. Bucky sighs, desperate. He traces his fingers along the indention where Steve's pressed his pen too hard.

_Buck,_ _Nothing much happening here. Just waiting. Food's running low. Take care of yourself. Can't pay for this apartment by myself._ _Steve._

He tries to picture his face, somewhere far away from here. Twisted in frustration, bent over his artwork, skinny legs tucked under his frail body as he sits hidden on their fire escape. He’d do anything to have him here, but Steve doesn’t belong in a place like this. The thought of it makes him shiver right down to his goddamn bones.

 _God’s will,_ momma would say. _He’s punishing you,_ momma would think. She’d never say it, though. She’s always tried her damndest to shut her eyes.

Not far from him, a man coughs, the cold autumn air swirling where the warmth from inside him exposes itself. He clutches his leg in pain. It’s not broken enough, or in the right place, to save him from fighting tomorrow.

Bucky holds the letter close, holds Steve close, holds himself. The part of him that’s still intact. He shuffles in his seat, trying to get as comfortable as he can amongst the walking dead. He tries to sleep.


	2. Rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees the compass, small and frail in his best friend’s hand, and he hates the girl, and he even hates Steve, and he hates himself.

The soldier bites the inside of his cheek until a rusty taste fills his mouth.

“ржaвый.” He tries to suppress his screams.

\----------------------

The Italian fields are dusted with the lightest coat of morning snow. It finds its home in the folds of the uniforms of his men, melting in his hair. A snowflake has landed on Steve’s eyelash, and were they alone Bucky would gently brush it off, but they’re not, and he knows what people would say and that just won’t do.

Steve, big and strong now, stronger than him, is hunched over the hood of the car, gesturing towards the map. God, who would have thought? Skinny little Steve Rogers who he’d carried home under his arm when he’d picked the wrong fight, who’s bony hand he’d held through endless nights during the winters when it got too cold and Steve’s damn lungs couldn’t take it. He hates him like this. The Steve he knows, his Stevie, feels so far away. He’s someone else’s now. He looks like a goddamn poster boy. But at least this Steve, _Captain America_ , won’t get picked on. At least he’s strong and healthy, and Bucky won’t have to break his own heart worrying if he’ll last through the night.

“If we attack them from this side…” Steve pulls out a compass, rusted in some places, small in Steve’s large hand. Inside hides the smiling face of that British agent that Steve likes, Peggy from the bar. Somewhere inside him, a part of Bucky withers, like another link between him and Steve is being cut. He stares at her face, eyes boring into hers, and he hates her. Hates her warm brown eyes, and that smirking red mouth. For every second that he sees her face he feels himself get further and further away from Steve.

Finally, he closes the compass, puts it in the breast pocket of his blue utility suit, looks up at his friends.

“Understood?” he’s speaking with the voice of a commander now, the voice of a Captain. And Bucky’s happy for him, he has to be, but he understands now why they call them the Howling Commandos. It’s melancholy and tragic, and that suits him just fine, and ain’t that neat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please give kudos or leave a comment if you liked it, or if you didn't. Thanks for reading!


	3. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his seventeenth birthday Bucky Barnes takes Steve Rogers out dancing and realises he’s in love with him.

The body’s convulsing, muscles cramping, twitching like a dying fish on land trying to get its last breath of air. The pain burns through him like wildfire.  


“Семнадцать.”  


Inside the vessel, someone deep inside the soldier screams into the emptiness that is his body.

\-----------------

Steve’s in the kitchen. Outside, the afternoon air hangs heavy, drops of rain drying on the window glass. He’s giddy like a school boy, dancing around on the tips of his toes, swaying his hips to the sound of his own voice as he sings some song he likes under his breath. His hands, frail and bony like the rest of him, are working hard and fast wrapping up a gift.  


“You’re gonna send all the dames screaming if you dance like that.” Bucky’s on the doorstep. His smile reaches for miles, the way it does whenever Steve does something stupid. He’s wearing his finest clothing for the occasion; his dad’s old cotton suit that’s still a little too large for his 17-year-old body, hair slicked back and wet from the recent downpour.  


Steve doesn’t even have to look up to know who it is. “Shut up, Barnes,” he mutters with the hint of a smile. He’s always had the vilest tongue.  


“Watch your mouth, Rogers.” Steve ignores him, ties together the package with a string. He continues to dance by himself, maybe just to spite him, maybe cause he’s just in that kind of mood, maybe because he hasn’t really smiled ever since Sarah Rogers got the diagnose.  


“What’s that?” Bucky pries, walking up to him, feigning to struggle getting a glimpse over Steve’s shoulder. “Steve, I told you, you don’t have to-“  


“It’s not much,” he apologises, turns around and hands it to him. The real gift, to Bucky, is to be able to see that familiar shine back in those big blue eyes, the hint of hope in his face. He’s grown tired of watching those dark eyebrows furrow, those rosebud lips press into a thin line, those skinny shoulders slump.  


“Wasn’t expecting anything.”  


“Well, happy birthday, Buck.”  


He smirks. “Thanks, Steve.”  


“Sure.”  


He can’t think of much else right now, can’t think of the dinner he’s going to eat later tonight, knowing Steve and Sarah will share nothing of the sort, can’t think of whatever effort Steve’s put into his present. He can’t. If he could wish for anything, he’d beg to God on both his knees for Sarah Rogers’ life. Goddamn it, he’d do anything just to have her get better. “Can I open it later?” Steve nods yes. He puts it aside. “How’s your ma?”  


He hesitates a little, stomach tied into knots, heart aching every moment since things started getting downhill. “She’s done worse.” He smiles up at Bucky with that heart-breaking smile of his. That smile that’d Bucky give up his whole life just to guarantee.  


“You know I’m here for you both.”  


“Yeah, I know, Buck.”  


Steve turns back to the sink and reaches for the radio, turning one of the dials. A woman’s voice crackles and fills the kitchen of the poor, empty Brooklyn apartment. After a while he begins to sing along, eventually letting his feet move with the rhythm.  


“No, can’t do it,” Bucky says with a wry smile on his face. “Can’t take you out looking like this, Stevie.”  


Steve purses his mouth sourly at the name and Bucky takes his wrist, leading him to the kitchen floor. His other hand grabs Steve’s left in a grip he doesn’t even try to escape from.  


“You gotta move to the sound. Gotta listen to the music.”  


“Buck-“  


“Shut up. Just do it.”  


Bucky sways his arms, forcing Steve to move with him, move with the woman’s voice and the saxophone and the orchestra.  


“Lookin’ better, Rogers.”  


“I’m just doin’ it for you, you jerk,” he quips.  


Bucky’s laugh is guttural, from the depths of his stomach, the way he laughs whenever Steve’s around. “My ma should hear that. She’d have the fright of her life.”  


“It may be birthday, but I’ll still clock you.”  


“Yeah, yeah. Like to see you try,” he laughs.  


The woman stops singing and the song ends, picked up by a slower tune. A blush creeps up Steve’s cheeks, flushing him pink like a summer peach.  


“We done now?” His voice is quiet, like a secret. They stand still, feet unmoving. Steve’s wrist is still in his hand. Their breaths are rushed from all the dancing.  


“Yeah. We’re done.” Bucky lets him go and rolls up his sleeves just to find something, anything to do. To fill the silence. Steve’s gone from his grasp in less than a second, turning his back towards him. With unsure hands he fiddles with the dials and switches to another station. His hands are shaking. Bucky’s too.

\-----------------------

“Семнадцать” they repeat, upping the intensity. Electricity courses through him, through his veins like new blood, through his heart like venom.  


The scream escapes the soldier’s lips, twisted in anguish. No, thinks Bucky Barnes, somewhere inside him. _Please._

\-----------------------

He carries Steve over his shoulder. The rain pitter-patters on the sidewalk, on the roofs of the cars parked alongside it, in the puddles forming where the cobblestones are unbalanced. He’s skinny like a leaf, but their clothes are drenched and heavy. Steve’s chest rattles like the piggybank left untouched for years on his bedroom shelf, his eyelids closed, just trying to survive.  


 _Shit,_ thinks Bucky. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. he thinks as he hauls him up the stairs to his home. _Shit,_ as he carries him across the threshold as if he were his bride. _Shit,_ as he lays him down on his bed. And goddamn it, Sarah Rogers is lying in her own next door, coughing up blood.  


 _Isn’t he a beautiful boy?_ she’d asked Bucky once. _Beautiful as a dame,_ Bucky’d replied. And he is. He is. With those big sad eyes rimmed with his long dark lashes, that pink mouth, those dark brows and that big nose of his. Even now, when his hair’s wet and all over the place, when the colour’s gone from his cheeks. Even now he’s still the most beautiful thing Bucky knows. His heart twists in the most painful way, twitching, like a muscle spasm, just by looking at him. He collapses, exhausted, on his knees.  


“Please,” he whispers to no one. “Please.”  


Steve twitches in his bed, cold as a dead man, pale as one too, with sweat pearling on his forehead.  


“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Stevie.” He cries into his shoulder, the sound muffled by Steve’s heart-shattering coughs. This time the name means something.  


 _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, this time knowing exactly who he is talking to. _I’m sorry. I’ve tried my damnedest, but I’ll try some more. I’ll try. I’ll try. I’ll try,_ he prays, knowing that’s all he’ll ever be able to do.  


The soldier screams, angry, furious, livid. Inside, Bucky Barnes screams too.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, boy.
> 
> I started writing this *months* ago, but was never really able to finish it. Until now. Obviously. I've never written stevebucky before, or anything Marvel for that matter, but after seeing Infinity War, and rewatching The Winter Soldier, reading Not Easily Conquered, I kind of fell down a rabbit hole. So here I am. Technically, this little series will be a ten parter, each part one of the words in the Winter Soldier trigger words, followed by the memory that triggers Bucky, that hurts.
> 
> If you liked it, or if you didn't, give kudos and/or leave a comment and I'll be a happy gal.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
